Archive for June, 2008
…that make me crazy.
Let’s just take a moment to review why I wanted to elope, shall we?
- We have no money. We are poor. Weddings are expensive. See how that doesn’t work out? I’m no good at math, but even I can figure that one out.
- I have divorced parents and a whacked out family. Is Mr. T going to tell biodad that J is walking me down the aisle because he’s been an actual FATHER and not just a sperm donor? No, I have to do it. And biodad is the master of that born-again Christian/crazy person guilt trip and every time I talk to him, I end up hating myself for at least three days.
- I have divorced parents and a whacked out family. Yes, I really want to drive this point home. When Grandma died, that became so much more evident. Biodad never called, stepmonster tried making my grief all about her, my uncle’s white trash/bad mother/drug addict/alcoholic/slightly retarded/completely inconsiderate girlfriend/fiance (god save us all) acted in a way that deserves its own post as soon as I can bear to write about it. Anyway, these are the people that are involved in my wedding. Stepmonster wanted to make a modesty panel for M’s BLACK jr. bridesmaid dress out of a part of the hot pink sash. She thinks hemming it at the kneecap is “too short.” I am getting married in a church! I never wanted to get married in a church! But I did it to appease these people.
- I am not a planner. I don’t handle stress well. The wrong color and size of acrylic ice threw me into a total meltdown today. That’s not normal. It sucks. I never even wanted to worry about acrylic ice.
- I wanted to get married on a beach and be on my honeymoon the second I said “I do.” Now I don’t even get to say I do, I have to say I will. And we can’t afford a honeymoon because all the money is going to the wedding I never wanted to have. Ain’t that a bitch.
- Mr. T doesn’t even dance. I will spend 90% of the reception dancing by myself because he doesn’t dance.
- Did I mention I have a screwed up family?
- Grandma died. She died! That’s not a small thing, and I can’t get over how sad I am that I won’t get to hug her on my wedding day.
- I’m a crier. I am crying right now, I was crying two hours ago, and I’ll probably cry all weekend. That’s what I do when I’m sad/angry/confused/uncomfortable/stressed/overwhelmed/hungry/intoxicated/
horomonal/happy/alive. I still cry at The Lion King. With everything that’s happened in the last two months, I feel like all I ever do anymore is cry.
- I have a full time job, a dog and cat – and a fiance that hates cleaning as much as I do. So we have an insanely disgusting house that is cluttered and dirty and stresses me out when I walk in the door.
- I am incapable of making decisions. I hate my wedding dress. We picked the wrong venues. I probably picked some of the wrong bridesmaids. I know I picked the right groom, but that’s all I know.
- I hold grudges for a loooooooong time. Always have, always will. Mr. T knows this, but I don’t think he understood what I tried to tell him about not wanting to have a traditional wedding. I know he regrets making me plan this thing now, but with all the deposits, we can’t undo it. And I resent that.
A wedding consists of one big thing (the marriage) and a million small things. And it’s the small things that make me absolutely out of my mind insane.
Sometimes I have the random urge to write haiku and limericks. Today, I’ll stick with haiku. Tomorrow, hold on to your ass…
I found some nice pants
The monkeys were envious
Have a banana
(This one is a stalkerku)
Here’s looking at you
But not in a creepy way
Unless you like it
My cat is a jerk
Yoga makes me want to puke
A small miscreant
Jelly and pickle sandwich
Please make me barren
Oatmeal is gooey
Science is not the devil
You can’t fool me twice
Puppets are funny
The internet is for porn
Avenue Q love
Clowns scare me shitless
Your dogs make funny noises
I’m not sleeping here
Give me five dollars
Seriously, I need it
It’s not a haiku
Unicorns are real
George Bush smoked a lot of crack
Who wants some sausage?
The impatient cow
Is already a burger
What is in my eye?
The blue screen of death
Just tried to ruin my day
Bill Gates can suck it
I am too sleepy
To write any more haiku
So this is the end
I know I do stuff that doesn’t make sense. I have a lot of stories that include, “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time…” But at the end, none of them were actually good ideas. In fact, most of them leave people thinking, “Is that girl some kind of retard or something?” Probably. But I got straight As, so shove it.
Tonight, I had a volleyball game at 6:30. Given the summer traffic fluctuations that fuck every schedule I set, I left work with an hour to get to the game. My box and I rolled into NorCo about a half hour before the game, and that’s when a brilliant idea struck me. If I could change in the car while driving, then I would have ample time to grab a new read from B&N before arriving at the game, ensuring that I didn’t have to sit around for 20 minutes looking like the sad retard girl with no friends. Perfect.
As I’m exiting the highway, I grab my shorts from my bag and slide them on under my dress. Easy peasy. As I’m driving, I gracefully slide both arms out of the dress straps (if by graceful I mean looking like a hungry baby bird flapping frantically in its nest). Check, but I’m a little sweaty now and that SUV next to me is definitely pacing me, trying to catch a peek. Hey, I’ve got a great rack, can’t blame a guy for trying. At the next stoplight, I slide my sportsbra on over my other bra and under the dress top. Not too shabby, but I turned the AC up a little. Then I removed the normal bra and chucked it on the floorboard. Senor SUV is really disappointed in my skills.
Here’s where things get interesting. I decide that I’m dressed enough that I can remove the dress without risking an indecent exposure violation. Steering with my knees (hey, I’ve done this before), I twist the dress around so the zipper is in front. I attempt to unzip, but my knee steering has gotten a little shaky, so I opt to put on my tank instead. I tuck it under the dress. Now I can remove the dress and be fully clothed – like magic! But the zipper isn’t being cooperative…so I pull into the B&N parking lot, park and focus on the task at hand.
Let’s relive some of my inner dialogue (yes, I answer myself, okay?)…
“What is wrong with this damn zipper?”
“It’s probably those stupid nails – I can’t get a good grip on anything. And I mean anything…”
“Geez, I’m a perv. Anyway…this thing is really stuck!”
“Maybe trying to take it off over my head will work. Why is that lady laughing?”
“Damn you, boobies! The dress doesn’t fit over my lovely lady lumps!”
“Ack! What is that lady WEARING??? Oh wait, what am I wearing????”
“Geez, now those two people are laughing. And I think that guy is on his third trip past this spot. Maybe I should just go to the game and hope someone can help me…”
Keep in mind that I am wearing two complete outfits at this point, and they don’t match at all. I’m stuck in this dress and there’s a good 15 minutes before any of my teammates will be arriving at the game…plus, most of them are guys and would just laugh. So I drive to the game, two outfits and all, and park on the side of the dumpster so only one other car could park next to me. This zipper is stuck like Taft in a bathtub. My only option is to reach in and force the girls down so I can pull the dress over my head. OOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! My tits are still pissed at me, but what else could I do? I still can’t get the zipper down.
But seriously. Who would’ve thought THAT would happen? The zipper is the LAST thing I would’ve expected to cause me trouble. So in hindsight, yeah, maybe that was a little retarded. But it seemed like a good idea at the time…and I wasn’t even drinking.
If my uterus could talk, here are a few things it would say:
“I wish I were a barren wasteland.”
“No babies need apply.”
“Babies are scarier than clowns. Now, that’s fucking scary.”
“Did you smell that? I think it was babies. RUN!”
“If you are a sperm, I will straight up murder your ass.”
“Whoever said all babies are cute had ugly babies.”
“What is wrong with that baby? It looks like someone beat it with a shovel.”
“I wonder where I put that shovel.”
I can honestly say that, at this point in my life, I am the most anti-offspring I have ever been. And I’ve been pretty damn adamant about my feelings regarding spawning. It has developed to the point now, however, that I have a physical reaction to the word children and/or baby and to actual children and/or babies. The thought of procreating or even babysitting repulses me. I used to think some kids were cute and could handle being around them. Now, it’s all I can do to plaster a fake ass smile on my face and pretend to tolerate the devilspawn in my presence. And that’s just out of courtesy for people I know and respect (or get paid to respect). If you are a stranger and dangle your kids in front of me, don’t expect anything good to come out of it. It’s best if you just stay away. You and your miniature drunk adults should keep back at least 50 yards. Please. If not, I cannot be held responsible for what I may say and/or do. You’ve been warned.
I’m not at all ashamed of my self imposed non-breeder status. I mean, there really should be more people like me to help control the world population. However, it seems like babies are all the rage right now and I know people would rather live in their happy place full of rainbows and non-colicky babies and Angelina Jolie, but I offer an honest, if not a little harsh, reality check…and I know it’s not always appreciated. I’m sure there are plenty of positive reasons to have mini, goo-covered aliens shoot forth from your nether regions, but I just don’t agree with them. One day, a few Hollywood hotshots will decide that babymaking is sooo last year and more people will jump aboard the non-breeder train. But until then, I’m proud to represent.
Another thing – I’m so insanely sick of the look of shock that happens upon the faces of everyone I tell about my feelings on procreation. Don’t be shocked! It’s perfectly fine for me to never have children. In fact, I’m doing the world a favor. I would be a horrible, horrible mother and I am sparing the world the most sarcastic, foul mouthed little person they would ever encounter. Seriously. I think it’s hilarious when kids cuss and talk about anatomy inappropriately. I would teach my nonexistent tykes so many bad words and nicknames for their naughty bits that I’d be banned from PTA meetings and soccer games. I’d have to homeschool them as if they were crazy Presbyterians because no public school would allow them in and there’s no way in hell I’d pay a private school to educate my miscreants. So don’t look so shocked when I say I never want kids – look happy and relieved, tell me I’m doing the right thing, give me five dollars and go the hell away.
Back to you, my little anti-changeling uterus. You piss me off with your misbehaving, but I will never subject you to the horror that is child bearing. In your honor, I have created this loving “artist’s rendition” of what your inhospitable environment might look like:
Today officially marks two months of life without Grandma. It sucks. There are good days and bad. I think about her everyday. I miss her everyday. I cry almost everyday. I’m so sad that I’m getting married in September and she won’t physically be there with me. So much in my life involved her, but by the same token, not enough involved her. I wish I had spent more time visiting with her at the home. I wish I had asked more questions about her life. I wish I had called her more. I still haven’t taken her number out of my phone. I can’t. It’s too permanent. I wish I hugged her more. I wish I hadn’t assumed she would just be around whenever I wanted to see her. I wish I hadn’t been so selfish when she was alive and had given her more of my time and shown her more of my love. As hard as it was for me to see her in a home, it must have been so much harder for her to actually be there, and I took that for granted. I would give anything in the world to see her flip the bird one more time. But I can’t, and that breaks my heart. It’s so easy to look back and see everything I did wrong while she was here…but for today, I think I’ll look back and remember some of my favorite stories.
Okay, Grandma, let’s take a walk down memory lane. Do you remember…
…how J and I would use your flyswatters as swords and run around your house pretending to be She-Ra?
…how Mom used to have to wait until She-Ra was over every single afternoon before she could take us home?
…that Halloween that we actually got She-Ra costumes?? I bet that saved a bunch of flyswatters from certain death.
…that time I was playing with the kids across the street and I came and asked if you would make us grilled cheese sandwiches? You said, “In a minute!” and I put my hand on my hip and busted out my best Michelle Tanner impersonation, saying, “Well, excuuuuuuuuuuuuse me!” And then the neighbor’s dad came over and wanted a sandwich, too? Those people were weird.
…how J was your pumpkin and I was your munchkin?
…when I slammed your fingers in the van door outside the bowling alley? I still cry when I think about how that hurt you. We bowled while you sat there with ice on your hands. I never got over how badly I felt about that.
…all those times we’d take you to Target and you’d holler at the cart boys, “Yoo hoo, boys! I’ve got two cute, single granddaughters!” Every time. Without fail. Funny now, mortifying then. But after Grandpa passed, you would get so mad when we’d see a single old fart at a restaurant and try to do the same.
…the old red car Grandpa used to drive? It didn’t even have seatbelts. You both smoked, so the vinyl interior always smelled like cigarettes. To this day, riding in a car that belongs to a smoker is so comforting and makes me think of that car.
…how Mom and I used to fight all the time? When we’d come over and take you shopping, Mom would walk away to get something and you’d ask what was wrong. I’d tell you and then later find out that you told Mom I told you…and I always glossed over the parts of the stories that incriminated me, but you always found out…and you’d yell at both of us and make us make up.
…how you’d always say, “Aw, hell” after anyone told a dirty joke or teased you? It was always after you laughed, though, so we knew you weren’t mad. Or offended. You just liked to play innocent, but we know the truth.
…how, without fail, regardless of what time we arrived, you’d ask us “Do you want a soda? Do you want a Little Debbie?” every time we walked in your front door? Before we left, at least one of us had to have a soda and eat a Debbie…
…the green pickle elevator? You had that green tupperware container with the white lid that had a matching green insert that lifted pickles out of the juice so you could grab them. I loved that thing, and you always let me eat as many pickles as I wanted.
…how S smoked pot in your basement all the time so we’d have to yell down first before we went down to play Nintendo with him? I always thought your basement smelled weird…and then biodad took me to a Ringo Starr concert when I was about 13 and, as we walked past the lawn, I said, “That’s weird. It smells like Grandma’s basement here.” Biodad did look a little guilty, now that I think about it. You know, I was in my twenties before I put it all together…I was a little sheltered.
…how you’d say, “Holy cow, look at that big fat ass” every time an obese person passed us in public? And you never said it quietly. Sure, it was mean, but it was honest and that was just part of your overwhelming charm.
…how Matt thought you were joking every time you flipped him off? Dumbass.
…how you kicked breast cancer’s ass? You may have lost one boob in the process, but like you always said, the other one wasn’t much more than a fried egg anyway…besides, having a one-boobied grandma was pretty cool to brag about.
…how there was an earthquake not two hours after you passed? I knew you wouldn’t go quietly, and that you’d make an entrance when you got to the pearly gates.
…how much we all love you? You were truly one of a kind and I was blessed to have you as my Grandma.
Thank you for babysitting J and me for so many years and not killing us. Thank you for being the peacekeeper, but also for stirring the pot. Thank you for all the laughs, all the tears, all the strength you taught us. Thanks for fighting so hard and beating breast cancer and three strokes. Thanks for always being there for me. Thanks for always being honest with me. Thanks for so many things I can’t possibly express at this moment.
I’ll never forget all the time we had together. I’ll never stop missing you, but maybe someday, my heart will hurt a little less. I’ll never stop loving you, because that would simply be impossible. I will forever take you with me everywhere I go. I am a piece of you and you are a piece of my heart and soul. I love you so much. Here’s to you, Grandma. May I someday be a third of the woman you were. And twice the smartass.
I may not have a plethora of “manly” skills, but as Mr. T is extremely skilled in home improvement and car maintenance, I have not had to know many such skills. (He also took home ec and I never did, so here’s betting he can sew far better than me as well.) By the same token, I am no domestic goddess, either. I despise cleaning, doing laundry, ironing, cooking and most other related tasks. Basically, I’m a lazy, worthless slob who likes to bake but not clean up afterwards. And I am skilled with dumping stuff in the crock pot and serving it on paper plates when I get home.
But I digress (shocker, I know). I decided that it wasn’t fair that Mr. T be the only one to do yardwork, and as I have never mowed the lawn before in my life, I made him show me how this weekend. It’s not fair that his skinny ass gets to burn those calories, anyway. Bring it on.
We had let the lawn get a bit long, so Mr. T advised that I cut it high the first time and one of us would have to go over it again in a day or so to cut it short. As I am not to be trusted with gas-powered items featuring sharp blades, Mr. T kindly cut the awkward hill on the side of our driveway and then let me loose. He weeded the front landscaping as I mowed on Sunday, giving a few hints now and then, but mostly letting me learn how to handle the mower on my own. Not difficult, but it does take some getting used to in terms of maneuvering.
Last night, I decided I’d go ahead and handle the second run to get the grass nice and short. Mr. T helped me lower the mower and I was off. Okay, people, mowing the lawn IS NOT HARD. I might look retarded as I am still figuring out the best way to turn in small spaces, but much to my boobs’ dismay, I fully intend to mow the lawn on a regular basis. I’m empowering my inner goddess or some crazy vagina-loving-babble like that. So when I am in my front yard, mowing the lawn, I do not need you, Mr.Ikeepmybitchesinthekitchen, to drive by, honk and yell at me about being a woman cutting the grass. Or maybe you asked if I wanted to come mow YOUR lawn - I couldn’t quite hear you over the roar of my newly discovered manbilities.
I’m not so much a feminist. I enjoy having my chair pulled out for me and doors opened for me (but only by Mr. T). I think it’s adorable when Mr. T orders for me at restaurants (it doesn’t happen often, so it’s endearing). I love that he wants to take care of me, but I equally love that he’s willing to teach me how to do anything I want to learn. I can almost change the oil in my car by myself (sometimes the filter is on too tight for me to remove on my own). I am the techie at our house. I now mow the lawn. I take out the trash and carry heavy things. I’m fully capable of barbecuing dinner, but I let him do it because he loves it.
When I go for a run or walk, I don’t want to be honked at. When I’m watering my flowers, I don’t want to be honked at. When I walk by you at the mall, I don’t want to be informed of how “thick” I am (which is apparently a compliment) or asked for my number. When I am leaving Target, I don’t want you to tell me to smile and then chase me out of the parking lot in a desperate attempt to get a piece of this unavailable ass.
Guys, I know it’s not nice to stereotype, but I’m sick to death of this shit. Unless I’m dressed like the gym stripper, you have no right to assume that I want any part of what you have to offer (but I think she’s available, so have at it). I declare war. When I see you running down the street, trying to get a decent workout in for the day, I will honk and yell at you. When I drive by a construction site, I will do the cat calling, thank you very much. Unfortunately, I think you’ll be encouraged by this, so perhaps it’s not the best plan. Perhaps you enjoy feeling like a piece of meat on display for public enjoyment, but I do not. So perhaps I will simply continue to flip you the bird until you get the point and go fuck yourselves.
I don’t have a case of the Mondays. I am full out, unrelentingly, unabashedly anti-Monday. Monday is a whore. Nothing good can possibly come of a Monday. There’s a reason major restaurant chains are NOT named TGI Mondays or Ruby Mondays or anything else as asinine and oxymoronic. Monday is the brainchild of satan himself, created to make the lives of those less evil than he painful, depressing and all together wretched. If you enjoy Mondays, I hate you. Stop enjoying it in my presence. Your joy nauseates me.
Why are Mondays so horrific? Well, there’s the struggle to regain consciousness before 8 AM, the weekly status meetings of doom, the general depression that comes with facing five days of work and the realization that everything I put off on Friday because it was Friday now has to be done…ugh. But this Monday was particularly foul. As you know, I was so happy to get my box back last week. I just love that car, and now it was all painted, cleaned up and sparkly. I discovered a few unfortunate dings over the weekend, but that’s just life. I can accept a few minor things like that. So fast forward to this morning. I am minding my own business, driving down the Innerbelt and approaching my exit. Traffic is as good as it gets and I didn’t have to show anyone my lovely middle digit. I happened to glance down at the radio and, when I looked up a split second later, I notice something large and dark flying at my box (I should totally be a romance writer, eh?). I figure it’s a bird, given its height and path of motion. Well, then the large dark object pummels into my box (take that, Danielle Steel) and I quickly realize it is NOT a bird. I don’t know what the hell it was, but it left a hefty dent in the front of my box and took a nice chunk of paint with it as well. Fucker.
I guess I’m just not meant to have a flawless box. I can’t file another claim, so I guess I’ll be getting some touch up paint and concealing the wound. My poor baby. She just can’t catch a break. And thanks to Mr. T, she needs a good vacuuming now, too. He stuffed a bunch of wood into my box last night, and now there’s chunks of it all over the place. Oh, and a bike, but that didn’t make too much of a mess.
So now I am eagerly awaiting the end of this abysmal afternoon. Here’s to you, Tuesday. You’d better be on your best behavior because I am not afraid to make you my bitch.
I got my box back last night! Welcome home, Toaster. You were greatly missed. Here is a little breakdown of why I love you so much more than the rentalmobile from hell:
- When I climb in and sit down, I don’t feel like a 90 year old woman struggling to see over the steering wheel. When I get back out, I don’t have to worry about strangers walking by getting a full-on cooter shot because I’m wearing a skirt. You are the perfect height. Easy in, easy out…like every box should be.
- I can see everything. Blind spots are practically nonexistent. I am surrounded by windows, and straight ones at that. You don’t have a goddamned slanted rear window that causes optical illusions. I don’t feel like a drunk driver every time I drive you.
- You fit in small spaces. I can park you just about anywhere, and I don’t feel like the lanes on the highway are too small with you. You are my skinny black bitch and I love you for it.
- You are a stick shift. I just like that better. I think we know why.
- You get 30-34 glorious miles per gallon. I had that fucking Chrysler for three days and I’d be surprised if it got more than 15.
Now I need to show you the respect you deserve and name you. It has to be a girl name, because you are far too sassy to be a guy. I will work on it this weekend, I promise.
Well, blogstalkers, got any suggestions? I’ve got a few ideas but please give me some of yours. And if you are using Google Reader, you probably haven’t seen my fabulous new layout, so check it out. Or don’t. Whatever.
So fun, in fact, that I intend to share it with all of you. Awww, I’m just too sweet. The gushy lovefest? I’m so over it. It’s so two days ago. That was pre-shoppingforweddingundies.
I went shopping last night and the night before in the hopes that my inner sex kitten (who is thin, by the way) would miraculously emerge and I would find lots of sassy underthings for our nonexistent honeymoon in September. I know I have an, um, overdeveloped posterior, but I’ve grown used to it in my 26 years. Or so I thought. Victoria’s Secret (which I have discovered and will tell you shortly) has an awesome line of bridal stuff, and it was on sale, so I bought a few pairs of cute undies (the ones with words on the ass) and took them home to try on.
Upon doing so, I discovered her Secret – Victoria hates fluffy bitches. Come on! I’m not obese, just voluptous! I have fabulous ta-tas, but I’ve been cursed with useless childbearing hips, knees that make babies cry, and the ass of a black girl with thighs to match. Unfortunately, as a white chick marrying another cracker, the latter does me no good. Ms. B, you know what I’m talking about! Anyway, the words stretched out, my hip fat bulged and my ass looked unnatural. No deal. Fuck you, Victoria.
I tried on a corset at Fredericks…my conclusion there is that ruffles were made for crackwhores and pixies. Trying to find a garterbelt that fit was like looking for love at a Furry convention – nauseating, really uncomfortable and I left with some weird fuzz on my pants. And let’s not talk about fishnets and teddies. At the end of it all, I guess it’s a good thing we can’t afford a honeymoon, because it wouldn’t be the one I pictured anyway.
In addition to the horror of lingerie shopping, I also helped my friend Roxy shop for dresses. We went to Forever 21 and, as Roxy is petite and thin, she had good success. However, I feel the need to point a few things out. Let’s start with the name of the store. Forever 21??? Really? 21? I think “Forever Prepubescent” or “Forever Undeveloped” or “Forever WithoutWomanParts” would be a bit more accurate. Seriously! What fully developed 21 year old fits in that crap? I’d be lucky if one of the skirts there fit my thigh. Next, I am starting to understand the growing proliferation of teen pregnancy. As we’ve established that adult women probably don’t shop there too much, what mother is letting their skankeriffic daughter out of the house in skirts that short and shirts that low cut? I’m all for sluttin’ it up for a night out, but I could count on one hand the number of girls there that really should have been dressing like that on a regular basis. The rest were junior high to high school aged girls that would NOT be allowed to wear any of that crap to school. Good thing it’s summer break, eh? Time to further overpopulate the planet/fund abortion doctor salaries…
But whatever. It’s time for my trip to the gym. I’m bringing my stapler with me so if the gym stripper is there I can chuck it at her skull…